F Paul Wilson - Sims 03

by Meerm (v5. 0)

  “Which I’m sure are considerable.”

  “As me grandma used to say,” he said in a pretty fair Irish accent, “from yer lips to Gawd’s ear.”

  “Speaking of God, I’ve been looking at this church. Are you Catholic?”

  “With a name like Patrick Michael Sullivan, could I be anything else?”

  “Practicing?”

  “No. Pretty much the fallen-away variety. Haven’t seen the inside of a church for some time.”

  “But you do believe in God.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Where was this going?

  “Did you know that some sims believe in God, even pray to Him?”

  “No. I didn’t.” For some reason the idea made him uncomfortable. “Any particular faith?”

  “They tend toward Catholicism. They like all the statues, although they find the crucifix disturbing. They’re most comfortable with the Virgin Mary. Pick through any sim barrack and you’ll usually find a few statues of her.”

  “I can see that. A mother figure is comforting.”

  “Sims pray to God, Patrick. But does God hear them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do sims have souls?”

  “This is heavy stuff.”

  “Most enlightened believers accept evolution. Genetics makes it impossible for an intelligent person to deny a common ancestor between chimps and humans. Some theologians posit a ‘transcendental intervention’ along the evolutionary tree, the moment when God imbued an early human with a soul. So I ask you, Patrick: When human genes were spliced into chimps to make sims, did a soul come along with them?”

  “To tell the truth,” Patrick said, “I’ve never given it an instant’s thought until you just mentioned it.”

  Who had time to ponder such imponderables? Zero, obviously. And it seemed important to him.

  “Think about it,” Zero said. “Sims praying to a God who won’t listen because they have no souls. Imagine believing in a God who doesn’t believe in you. Tragic, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely. But I wonder—”

  The wail of a siren cut him off. He watched as an ambulance screamed into the parking lot across the street.

  “You think that’s for Romy?”

  “I imagine so.” Zero’s voice now was close behind him. “I told her to give it her best performance.”

  They watched a pair of EMTs, a wiry male and a rather hefty woman, hurry inside. A few moments later they reemerged, pulled a stretcher from their rig, and hauled it inside.

  “Wow,” Patrick muttered. “She must be bucking for an Oscar.”

  He kept his tone light but felt a twinge of anxiety at the way those EMTs were hustling. A long ten minutes later they exited, wheeling the stretcher between them. But it wasn’t empty this trip. Patrick could make out a slim figure in the blanket. Had to be Romy. He noticed that her head was swathed in gauze…with a crimson stain seeping through.

  “Shit!” he cried, fear stabbing him as he reached for the door handle. “She’s bleeding!”

  “Wait!” he heard Zero say, but he was already out and moving toward the street.

  No way he could sit in a van and watch Romy be wheeled into an ambulance by strangers when she was hurt and bleeding. Her gaze flicked his way as he dashed into the parking lot. When he saw her hand snake out from under the blanket and surreptitiously wave him off, he slowed his approach. And when she gave him a quick thumbs-up sign, he veered off and headed for the office building. He waited inside until the ambulance wailed off, then crossed back to the van.

  “She seems okay,” he said as he climbed back into the driver seat.

  “Wonderful,” replied the voice from the dim rear.

  “But what the hell happened in there?” He threw the shift into forward and took off after the receding ambulance. “She was supposed to stand clear and fake being hurt. How the hell did she cut her head open?”

  “I should have foreseen this,” Zero said. “This is so Romy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you understand? She had to make it real. She had to send a message to Manassas and SimGen and whoever else is involved that she’s ready to bleed for her beliefs.”

  “Sheesh,” Patrick muttered.

  “Isn’t she wonderful.”

  It wasn’t a question. In that moment Patrick realized that the mysterious Zero, although “unavailable,” was as smitten with Romy Cadman as he was.

  “What is it about her?” Patrick said. The ambulance was still in sight, though blocks ahead. Tailing it was easy in the light traffic. “I mean, you’re obviously taken by her, and I confess I’m drawn to her—”

  “Drawn?”

  “Like a moth to a searchlight. And then that guy Portero—”

  “The SimGen security chief?”

  “He’s got it bad for her. Might as well have written it on his forehead in DayGlo orange. What is it about Romy Cadman?”

  “Simple: her purity.”

  Patrick didn’t have to ask. He knew Zero wasn’t talking about virginity. He was talking about heart, about purpose.

  “I hear you. But Portero didn’t strike me as the kind who’d go for that.”

  “Some men approach purity like Romy’s simply to protect it from harm; and some wish to draw closer in the hope that it will rub off on them or somehow cleanse them; and others want to possess it merely to defile it and extinguish it because it reminds them of what they have become, as opposed to what they could have been.”

  Patrick glanced Zero’s way in the rearview. He’d obviously given a lot of thought to this.

  “Well, I guess we know where Portero fits in that scheme.”

  “I think we do.”

  “But how about you?”

  A long pause, then Zero said, “If my circumstances were different, I’d be content merely to warm myself in her glow. And if I couldn’t do that I’d settle for curling up outside her door every night to keep her safe from trespassers.”

  Patrick swallowed, unexpectedly moved.

  “You know, Zero,” he said, his voice a tad hoarse, “I’ve got to admit I’ve had my doubts about you. Major, heavy-duty doubts. But now…”

  “Now?”

  Patrick didn’t know quite what to say. Any man who could pinpoint Romy as Zero had, and who could not only feel about her the way he’d described, but come out and say it…

  “You’re all right.”

  Lame, but the best Patrick could do at the moment. At least it was sincere. Romy would appreciate that.

  8

  Patrick parted the curtains that separated Romy’s treatment area from the rest of the bustling emergency room. She sat on the edge of a gurney, her head swathed in fresh gauze—but no seepage this time. She looked pale and tired, but even so, to Patrick she was a vision.

  “How are you feeling?”

  A wan smile. “I’ve got a killer headache but I’ll survive.”

  He leaned close. “How’d you get hurt?”

  “You’ve heard the expression, ‘Shit happens’? Well—”

  Patrick clapped his hands over his ears. “The ‘S’ word! Saints preserve us!” He wanted to throw his arms around her but made do with seating himself next to her on the gurney. “Seriously. What happened?”

  “This lighting fixture fell from the ceiling and clocked me on the noggin; things get a little fuzzy after that. Took the ER doc hours to get to me, then after she stitched up my scalp there were x-rays and—”

  “How many stitches?”

  “The doctor said seventeen.”

  “Seventeen!” The number horrified him.

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds. She said she placed them close together to keep the scar thin.”

  Scar? “Jesus, Romy—”

  She smiled. “Not like I’m going to look like the bride of Frankenstein, or anything. It cut my scalp, way up above the hairline. Once the hair grows back where they shaved it, no one will know, not even me.”

  Relief
seeped through Patrick. The lighting fixture had been his idea. If it had left Romy disfigured…

  “Why, Romy?”

  “Relax, will you. I got a tetanus shot out of it, and a free ride in a stoplight-running ambulance. It’s no biggie, Patrick. Really.”

  “Is to me. Zero too.” Patrick had driven him to the garage, then rushed back here. “He wants me to call him as soon as—”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “How many days are they going to keep you?”

  “Days? More like minutes. They’re finishing up my paperwork now.”

  “You’re kidding!” Patrick realized his knowledge of medicine was just this side of nothing, but wasn’t it standard procedure to admit a head-trauma patient for observation, at least overnight? “They’re letting you go?”

  “Be real, will you. It’s just a cut on my head. I can—”

  “Excuse me,” said a male voice.

  Patrick looked up and saw a dark-haired man in a gray suit standing between the parted curtains.

  “Are you her doctor?” Patrick said. If so he was going to warn him about the malpractice risks of releasing Romy too early.

  The man flashed a collector’s edition set of pearlies. “Not a chance. I’m an attorney and I’m looking for the woman who was injured in the Manassas Ventures offices this morning.”

  Patrick stared at him. He’d met his share of ambulance chasers, but this guy really lived up to the name.

  “That would be me.” Romy shook her head. “But I don’t need a lawyer. I’ve—”

  “You’re absolutely right. And that’s precisely why I’m here.” He handed Romy a card. “Harold Rudner. I represent Manassas Ventures.” He set his briefcase on the gurney and popped its latches. “The company called me the instant its landlord informed it of this unfortunate incident. I was instructed to find you and compensate you immediately for the pain and inconvenience you have suffered.”

  “Compensate me?”

  He lifted the briefcase lid, removed a slip of paper, and extended it toward Romy.

  “Exactly. Although your injury resulted from shoddy work by remodeling contractors, Manassas is taking full responsibility and offering you this to ease your distress.”

  Romy took the slip and stared at it. “A check? For a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from the briefcase. “And all you need do to have your name written on the pay-to-the-order-of line is sign this release absolving Manassas Ventures of all liability and refrain from any future—”

  “Wow!” Patrick said, impressed. “Hit her while she’s still dazed from the terrible concussive impact of her life-threatening head injury, then shove a check under her nose and tell her all those zeroes can be hers if she’ll just sign away her legal rights to just compensation for an injury that might affect her quality of life for years, maybe decades, perhaps permanently. You are a smoothy.”

  Romy and Rudner were staring at him.

  Finally Rudner spoke. “Are you her lawyer?”

  “I am a very close personal friend who just happens to be an attorney.”

  Rudner turned to Romy. “I am offering you far more than you could hope to receive from any jury.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Patrick said. “One hundred thousand dollars barely scratches the surface of the amount this unfortunate woman deserves for her pain and suffering.”

  Romy smiled and handed back the check. Rudner took it with a sad shake of his head.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” he told her. “One you’ll regret when a jury offers you only a fraction of this—one third of which will go to your attorney. This could be all yours, every cent of it.”

  Romy’s hands flew to her mouth as she gave Patrick a wide-eyed stare. “Oh, Patrick! Am I making a terrible mistake? You know how I depend on your wisdom. Tell me. I don’t know what to do!”

  Patrick had to look away. It took all his will to keep a straight face. When he had control, he turned back, took both her hands in his, and lowered his voice an octave. “Trust me, my dear. I am well versed in these matters. You deserve much, much more.”

  “All…all right,” she said, her voice faltering. “If you say so.”

  Rudner shook his head again and closed his briefcase. As he lifted it off the gurney he turned to Patrick.

  “And you called me a smoothy?”

  As soon as he was gone they both doubled over in silent laughter.

  “Life-threatening head injury?” Romy gasped, red-faced.

  Patrick countered with, “‘You know how I depend on your wisdom’? I thought I was going to get a hernia!”

  She pressed her hands against her temples. “Oh, I shouldn’t laugh! It makes my headache worse!”

  Patrick looked at her. “I know this is serious business, but I couldn’t resist. That was fun.”

  She frowned. “Do you think he knew who we were?”

  “Not a clue. He’s a hired gun.” Patrick shook his head, still amazed at how quickly the company had responded. “A hundred grand for a cut head offered to someone they might just as easily have charged with trespassing. If this is any indication of how badly Manassas wants to avoid the legal system, I think we’re onto something.”

  9

  SUSSEX COUNTY, NJ

  DECEMBER 7

  “So,” Mercer Sinclair said, “the missing globulin farmers have surfaced.” He’d chosen that word deliberately but his little pun went unappreciated by his audience. So he added, “Literally.”

  That at least elicited a smile from Abel Voss.

  Mercer had invited the usual crew—Voss, Portero, and Ellis—to his office to discuss the matter. He had his agenda for the meeting posted in a corner of the computer monitor embedded in the ebony expanse of his desk while his custom news service scrolled items tailored to his topics of interest.

  “Postmortem ain’t back yet,” Voss said, “but the M-E’s on notice to copy us immediately with any and all results.”

  “I’m told the bodies appear to have been in the river about a week.”

  Voss nodded. “All three of them shackled together and weighted down. But the Hudson’s gotta way of returning some of the gifts it gets. Looks like these SLA boys took ’em for a ride that very night, shot them in the head, then dumped them before sunup.”

  “But not before torturing them,” Ellis said.

  Mercer glanced at his brother. Ellis hadn’t missed a meeting in months now. Maybe his latest anti-depressant cocktail was working. Mercer knew he should be glad about that but he wasn’t. The closer Ellis was to catatonia, the easier he was to deal with.

  “Yep, I heard that too,” Voss said. “Cigarette burns, fingernails tore off.” He grimaced. “Ugly stuff.”

  “They were globulin farmers, Abel,” Mercer said, unable to keep the scorn from his tone. “Somebody improved the gene pool by removing them.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, son. I ain’t no fan of their sort. Riddin the world of their kind is all fine and good. But torture? Ain’t no call to torture no one, son. No one. I think we’re dealin with some real sick puppies here.”

  “Which segues very neatly into the reason for our meeting: the ‘sick puppies’ who call themselves the Sim Liberation Army. It’s been a week since they raided that globulin farm and no one knows any more about them today than they did then. And where are the sims they supposedly wanted to free?” He turned to his chief of security who had yet to say a word. “Mr. Portero, if the NYPD is at a loss, surely your people have the resources to pick up the slack, don’t you think?”

  Portero shrugged. “We’re looking into it.”

  “This needs more than mere looking into, Mr. Portero. We need to track them down. It’s vitally important that SimGen be recognized as the true guardians and protectors of sims, not some group of murderous radicals.”

  Portero said, “The longer they go undetected, the lower the odds of finding them. And so far they seem to have pulled off a perfect
disappearing act.”

  “Which means what?”

  “That they’re probably professionals—well-funded professionals. Which makes me wonder if they might not be connected to that lawyer Patrick Sullivan.”

  “Why on earth would you think that?” Ellis said.

  “It’s not a stretch. A quarter of a million dollars appeared out of the blue to keep his unionization case going just when it was ready to fall apart. And I saw him and the Cadman woman outside the globulin farm the morning after this SLA demolished it.”

  Cadman? Mercer thought. Didn’t I just see that name? He’d been about to switch the topic to the annual stockholders’ meeting less than two weeks away, but instead he reversed the scroll on his newsclips.

  “On the contrary, Portero,” Ellis said. “It’s quite a stretch. People who try to use the legal system to seek a solution don’t suddenly leap to murder and arson.”

  Portero’s face remained impassive as he replied. “Perhaps Sullivan became a bit testy after his clients were put down.”

  Ellis stared at him. “You lousy piece of—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Voss said, shifting his considerable bulk in his seat and raising his hands. “We’re not the enemy here. The enemy is out there .”

  “Really?” Ellis said. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  Cadman…Mercer kept searching his screen. There. Found it. A suit against Manassas. He smiled. He’d long ago embraced his anal-completist nature because it so often paid unexpected dividends. Like now: Years ago, when he’d begun using the service, he’d entered ‘Manassas Ventures’ as a search string; this was the first hit he’d ever seen. He clicked on the abstract to bring up the full article; he felt a sweat break as he skimmed it.

  “Listen to this,” Mercer said. “Someone is suing Manassas Ventures.”

  He noticed a slight stiffening of Portero’s parade-rest stance. “Is that so?”

  “Manassas is in your people’s bailiwick. Why don’t you know about this?”

  “We have lawyers for legal problems. What’s the suit about?”